The Firecatcher
I had met the Firecatcher on the last day of the Ganimeade fair.
I had arrived at the Fair of Ganimeade with a traveling group of troubadours and bards during the early hours of dawn, the sun had not yet risen as the town prepared for the Fair. Tents and pavilions were already pitched and being pitched as we made our way through the wide open green field set out for the fair, hundreds of pennants and banners fluttered in the early dawn, their designs and crafts barely visible in the early misted dawn. We arrived with our own fanfare of joyous cacophony as the bards announced their arrival with song and lyre.
At this time was a mere stable-hand to Alren the stable master of the traveling group. I had tended the horses since before I could talk or walk. Alren and I saw to the horses whilst the rest of our band pitched their tents and decked the large wooden caravan that was our stage and our chest for the entertainments that would continue through the rest of the day. Sunlight had already begun to strengthening the fair grounds were becoming crowded with prospective audiences sidling through the various acts and performances that had arrived with the Ganimeade. Our own troupe had been greatly anticipated as our troubadours and bards put on quite a performance. I’ll admit that I had been nervous about our chances at the fair, through the winter we had been faced with several illnesses and one of our bards, Doriak had fallen ill, we had not thought to make Ganimeade this year round, but our troupe master, Cullen had pushed us and had raised a few new acts that would hopefully excite the crowd.
And we were rewarded with joyous encores and praise as we entertained on into the day; shifts were giving to the acts so that our own people could rest in between acts and the other traveling entertainment that had arrived. Master Alren had allowed me free time enough to wander through the various stalls and pockets of shops that had popped up through the day as the fair waxed on. The bright sun of spring was welcome, with soft springy clouds above us, a cooling breeze sifting through the fair and good food welcome, the air was progressing as well as I had hoped it would.
I saw all manner of acts that day. Several of them common enough that I did not bother recalling them when asked, others were strange and bizarre from lands that I had only heard of in alehouses. And others as strange as myth and fancy. There were strange creatures all about as well, men and women dressed strangely, a motely of bright colours that filled the fair grounds. Dozens more languages that were melodic, strange and exciting all at once. The fair of Ganimeade had a large turnout this year, and it excited me. I was awash with all this strange newness that I prayed to the gods that it would last for more than its three day worth, it would last a life time for me.
There were a manner of shows that caught my interest that day and for the following two days. One of which was the act of a several men performing some strange dance, a “snake dance” they called it. They were all dressed in bright scaly robes, mimicking the snake they were attributing the dance to, their heads were bare and they had painted their faces in green paint, reminiscing the scales of their creature. The dance was bizarre, I admit that I stood aghast at the strangeness of the dance, they seemed to move with no will of their own, their limbs seemed to belong to some demon fiend as they writhed with what I can only call serpentine grace, they moved in time with one another. And against one another, the dance seemed to last a life time as I watched. Added to this dance was a strange music that was played in time to their dance, it was haunting and enchanting all at once, and I was pinioned to their the act until the final note had carried away into the air.
The cheers that rose up after the act drowned out the voices of the fiar for a few long lingering heartbeats as the audience cried and cheered, many had tears in their eyes as they drew their gaze away from the three robed men. The robed men and their single musician bowed low, almost touching the grass with their bald heads and then they drew back and disappeared into their tent. I left their tent area with a sinking feeling in my chest, I had been born to the troubadours and had lived amongst them for seventeen years, and my life’s goal was to find the one act that would stay with my memories till the day I died. The snake dancers had almost achieved that, I knew I would not forget their act, but I knew it was not what I was looking for. I was looking for something…mythical.
Our troupe performed again that evening, in the glory of a thousand fires and torch light. The bards were in their element, the night offered a chance for them to weave and spin tales of distant lands, of myth and legend, of kings and queens long dead. Of dragons and demons. I sat enraptured by some of the less appreciated tales, one that truly caught my attention was the tale of the Firecatchers. I had heard their tales before, and had always felt that they were the most fantastical of the tales our bards told us over the night fires.
This night with all the hype and fervour coursing through my veins and found the tale of the Firecatcher even more riveting than before.
I knew that Firecatchers were men of myth and legend. None had been seen in centuries, and many of the bards reiterated the point that Firecatchers were men of myth, made up by the bards and skalds of old to explain the sect of sorcerers or pyromancers as they were known. I however knew that they were real, all myth is rooted in reality and the Firecatchers had to be real. I was certain of this.
It was early dawn when I was woken by a commotion outside the camp. The fair had gone to bed late and many were still awake, too excited to consider the possibility of sleep. Alren had ordered me to bed when several fires had died out, implying that we could be leaving the next day and he didn’t want me stumbling groggily over his horses. Grudgingly I had gone to bed, though I had not fallen asleep till later that night. I had just drifted off to sleep when the commotion began. I woke with a start, blood already sourcing through my veins as I hiked on my breeches and fumbled for my boots. Toblin and Benneck were doing likewise. We dressed in haste, each giving the other an excited glance. Alren had not ordered us to stay in, nor had Cullen. We exited our tent to find a rosy pink dawn awaiting us and a new day.
“This way.” I called Toblin and Benneck to follow as I sprinted for the sound of the commotion. It was coming from the edge of the camp were the “magicians” were pitched. They were not real magicians Cullen had pointed out, they practiced cheap hearth-hall tricks that any Jac-O-Trade could learn in a year. I had avoided their tents for as long as I could, I had no intention of wasting coin on cheap tricks, but this morning something was happening by the magicians tent and a large crowd was gathering there. Toblin and Benneck were swift on my hills as we pushed our way through the growing crowd, we found Alren and Cullen at the edge of the crowd watching the magicians as they ranted and shouted their obvious indignation at the new arrival.
I saw the man before I heard his words. He stood there in the centre of the magicians gathering. A small man of medium height and build. He wore a simple robe and breeches of soft brown and deep orange, the orange seemed to burn with a life of its own. And the man carried gnarled walking staff though he looked like no journeyman. He cast his glance about the gathering crowd with something I could never explain. “So this is what you call magic?” He inquired softly, yet his voice carried through the crowd like a river, silencing the mages immediately. They stared at the newly arrived man with deep confusion. I myself was confused by this strange yet homely arrival. The man turned around slowly, like a magician assessing his audience, sizing them up before beginning his act.
This brown robed man cleared his throat. “My name is Juannik. I have heard about your good fair for some time and decided that I must perform here once before I die. I have also heard of the cheap hearth-hall tricks practiced by these gentlemen.” He pointed to the mages with his staff, “I do not say this to beshame this gentlemen, no I merely say this so that you know I do not practice cheap hearth-hall tricks.”
“Then show us what you practice, stranger.” Cullen called from the crowd, I nodded my assent, the murmur ran through the crowd, the brown robed man, Juannik nodded slowly, as if understandingly.
The man drew his robe from his shoulders and tossed it to a mage. The man caught the proffered attire grudgingly but held onto it. The silence in the crowd was thick, surreal. I realized I was holding my breath and released it slowly as Juannik closed his eyes and began twirling his staff in both hands. Like a troubadour would as he entered an act that was acrobatic. The staff was a blur before our eyes, yet it seemed fixated in one place, Juannik stopped the blur as abruptly as it had begun, the crowd gasped and low murmurings circled through the air, doubt and disappointment.
“You have not seen real magic.” The man whispered, I think I was the only one who heard him for no one else reacted.
Juannik’s hands began to glow. A soft ember red that deepened with every heartbeat. The staff began its revolutions once more, each revolution brightening the staff until the fifth heartbeat set the staff on fire. A cry rang through the crowd as the man’s hands and staff were a blazing fire, dancing about him as he spun and twisted the staff with a skill I had seen no troubadour match since. Spellbound, we all watched in awed silence as the flames change from bright orange to pink and dulling down to pale opal and then bright green in heartbeats. The staff was roaring now, the flames licking themselves up the man’s arms, he stood in the center of the conflagration with ease as if the flames were none existent. And then he began to move with the flames, I have yet to see any acrobat who could mirror this man’s skill, this small medium set man had the grace and skill of a monkey and swan, his movements were too fluid to belong to a mortal man, and the ease with which he executed each movement was… beautiful. I felt tears prick my eyes as I watched this man, Juannik execute a performance that was breath taking, he was now engulfed in flames from head to toe, his entire body one dancing conflagration of colour spinning flames.
And with a single abrupt snap the flames were gone. The bright dancing halted in less than a heartbeat, as if Juannik had not moved a muscle in all that time. No flame remained on the man nor on his staff, neither one showing signs of even being licked by fire, nor did the scent of smoke not linger in the air. This man stood before as if he had simply being twirling a stick, no flames involved. The silence that had gathered around us was thin and palpable, I could slice it open with a simply flick from my knife.
Juannik looked about the gathered hush before him. His eyes held a fire to them that I could recognize as pride, a simple acknowledgement that he had achieved the affect he wanted to evoke from his audience. Like a stage actor he let his gaze linger on the crowd, daring any of us to comment to cry out against his act against him. But no one spoke for what seemed an eternity.
“That was a cheap hearth-hall trick.” Juannik finally broke the silence. The silence rumbled to dissent at the words, Juannik gave a knowing smile. “A trick any man with enough courage and a few alchemy powders can pull off. I will now give you my final trick, one that no one but I know. I present to you the Last Dance of the Firecatcher.”
He then drew a small pouch from his belt, it was a simple leather belt that held some sort of dust or powder. He held the pouch up to the crowd, letting us all take a good long look at the pouch. And then his gaze caught my own, I stared back at the man with open wonder, he tossed the pouch to me, I caught it with both hands, wonderingly. “No simple hearth-trick.” He told the crowd as he emptied his other pockets of satchels and pouches. Satisfied he took his staff in both hands and drew something in the grass before him, the world fell silent as al tried to make out what the man had written. But we could see nothing. Juannik then stepped back from his writing and taking his staff in both hands gripped it before him, and slide it across his shoulders as if he were yoking himself. He stepped forward onto the invisible words he had written on the grass.
His lips were moving inaudibly, as if he were chanting something we could not hear. The grass about him began simmering, small tendrils of smoke began to rise and then the flames appeared. Burning bright orange and red, the flames grew higher around Juannik, hungrily devouring him. Juannik held my gaze as the flames rose around him, his lips continued murmuring now drowned out by the growing roar of the flames, the choking hand of the smoke blurred our visions into teary casts of themselves. I dared not wipe away the tears for fear of missing one moment of this man’s burning. I realized that the flames were real, the heat was searing and the sweat was pouring down my face. We watched spellbound and helpless as the flames sloughed the flesh off of Juannik, his hands charred and blacked and his body fell into the flames. I tried to rush to help him, but I was rooted to the spot unable to move as were we all.
The flames were now a roaring bonfire as the last vestiges of Juannik burnt away, staff and cloth singed to ash. The flames began to die slowly, gradually as their fuel was spent, the smoke curling up into the sky dispersed and we were left with an ash heap. I blinked several times, trying understand what had happened, I was still clutching the man’s pouch of powders in my hands, staring at the ash heap I felt the tears prickle at my eyes. Someone murmured a curse, another a prayer. A hand touched my shoulder.
“You all right, Kilan?” It was Alren, his heavy hand was a small slice of comfort amidst the turmoil that roiled in my stomach. We had watched a man set himself on fire and could do nothing to help him, to stop the foolish man.
“That was no hearth-trick was it?” I asked, my voice sore from the smoke. Alren shook his head.
“No.”
“Look.” Someone pointed to the ash heap, I turned my gaze back to the ash heap. It was glowing now, a beautiful golden hue that shimmered with radiant light. We watched as the ash heap changed from its black to the gold, and golden flames rose up from the heap, soft glowing flames that made no sound. And then with a stir from the wind, the flames began to take form, spreading out wide like the wings of a mighty eagle, the golden flames spread out and up and the shape of a large magnificent bird emerged from the flames, the bird was now a deep roaring red as it rose into the sky with a single cry. It flapped its wings once and soared high, leaving the crowd below it staring after it as it soared higher and higher until it was a red speck in the sky.
I watched the speck grow distance until it joined the stars in the fast approaching night sky. I realized that night was drawing upon us with sudden jolt that my head began to swim. We had witnessed the death of a Firecatcher and seen the birth of a phoenix, from the ashes of a man came the flaming bird and into the twilight it had rising, lost to our eyes amongst the stars.
I know that everyone gathered here at Ganimeade would be telling this tale for years to come. Maybe even centuries, the bards were already planning tales and interpreations of what we had witness as each man and woman went back to their tents to spend their last night at Ganimeade wrapped in their thoughts. I stood at the edge of the camp, where the Firecatcher had died; the mages had moved their tents after the phoenix’s disappearance into the night, there was nothing in the grass but a single spot of burnt grass to tell one where the incident had taken place.
I still have the Firecatchers’, Juannik’s pouch of powders to this day. I could not bring myself to toss it aside as if they were a useless item, the man had given it to me for a reason and I have spent my life trying to understand why. Perhaps the Firecatcher had just wanted to prove a point, or perhaps the secret to his magic lay in the powder, I do not know even to this day, but I will never forget the Firecatcher. His arrival at Ganimeade that morning has been etched into my very soul and I will go to my grave with the man’s death still upon my mind.
I will always remember Juannik, the Firecatcher who died amidst ashes and rose again as a phoenix.
The End.